Just A Fool
by insomatic-studios
Summary: "Love is losing yourself and finding yourself in someone all at the same time," I whisper. Santana sighs, leaning over to press her forehead to my temple. Her lips part, and I can feel her hot breath tickle my cheek, "I lost myself to you a long time ago."
1. Prologue

**A/N**

**(1)Hello Brittana fandom and any other person considerate enough to stop by. This is the prologue to my new fanfiction I will be burying myself in soon. I wanted to upload it and get it out there, hopefully gain a clan of followers and supporters, but I'm afraid I won't be uploading any more soon. I'm writing it backwards so that everything falls into place perfectly. So bare with me! I pinky promise you all that I'm working on it vigorously!**

**(2) Remember, if you have enough time to read and enjoy, you have enough time to leave feedback :)**

* * *

Forgetting is the worst imaginable pain a human being can go through. For weeks you comfort yourself be wearing the clothes you wore when you were around them, burying yourself in the comfort and smell of torture. Eventually you decide that the torture isn't even worth the thought, and you throw that sweatshirt in your closet so other clothes can pile on top of it for months until you forget it's even there. But one day when you're cleaning your hands will wrap around the fabric and you'll yank it to the surface, and there, in your presence, you will stare at it uselessly. Even her ghost is gone.  
The next thing that goes is the way her voice sounded in the dark. You'll remember that instant, that moment because you didn't know the beauty of the pain she would cause you. The slow staccato of 'I love you' was all that mattered then. It seems special, like you know in that second you will remember that moment forever. It's the part you were supposed to remember.  
You'll forget the way she smiles, and places her hands behind her head. You won't forget the feeling of failure; that will never go away. You failed to make her love you back.  
Somewhere in the midst of all the forgetting, you'll remember the way her pinkie links in yours so effortlessly, and it holds it so tightly, like all the gravity in the world just drops right there in that spot. You'll remember how badly you wanted to crawl under her skin, and know her from the inside out, know exactly where her heart is when something causes her to shout and scream; You'll remember how you wanted to get inside her mind because it's constantly changing, and finding, knowing exactly where it is when her eyes tear up and you can't recall the last time she was that angry.  
But here's the thing about forgetting: If you make all of this a ritual, smelling her clothes because it smells like home, picturing her smiling up at you as you map out her body with kisses, or remembering locked pinkies and anger you've never seen. None of this makes forgetting easier, because maybe it wasn't meant to be forgotten in the first place.

* * *

**Present Time**

It's been three weeks since we'd last spoken. Three weeks since that stupid fight. It was all too hard for Santana and too confusing for me, so we both decided to leave it at that. We've made no eye contact, phone calls, texts, and we've certainly stayed out of each other's bedrooms. The frustration is silent, and unnerved, but the flame flickers and pops until one day the smoke is just too thick and we can't stand it anymore and any contact is good. So we fight.  
And we fight hard.  
It's an awful curse that our lockers are right next to each other for cheerleading. Of course, it's always been this way, and it's never been a problem until, after three weeks of ignoring each other, you are forced with the grueling task of cleaning out lockers.  
She's there when I turn the corner; it's been two hours since the last bell has rung and school was out. I never expected her to be here still, but apparently she had the exact same state of mind, and there was no getting around this.  
She shoots me a sideways glance, her eyes gentle, but looks away just as quick, lowering books and extra clothes to the floor slowly. I feel my cheeks burn and I turn to focus on my combination, only to fumble and miss twice.  
I try my best to hide the grunt that escapes my throat when I turn past the correct last number for the third time, but it's no use. Her eyes shoot up and she sighs as well, staring at my shaking hands. My whole body flinches when her arm reaches over, because somewhere in the back of my mind I'm convinced she's going to smack me for being so stupid, but instead her left hand grabs mine, and for the first time in a while, she gives it a reassuring squeeze.  
In that same exact moment her other hand turns the knob on my lock and the metal hook clicks out of place, I slip my hand out of hers and say sternly, "no."  
I didn't mean for it to sound so ragingly cruel.  
"What the hell? I'm just trying to help you."  
"No," I say again, and thrust my locker open, just barely missing her shoulder, and she jumps back, alarmed. "You don't get to help me anymore."  
I can't even explain the seething rage that bubbles to the surface. Three weeks of dead silence, and no eye contact, and the first thing time we speak to each other, we're shouting. I wanted to just make things easy, wrap her in a hug and tell her how terrible it's been without her.  
So much for that.  
"You were having trouble, weren't you?" she growls, and in true Santana fashion, takes a step forward-her face inches from mine- and pushes me back by my shoulders, returning the impact I'd already taken.  
"I was doing just fine without you," I counter, placing my hands on her collar bones and shoving her back into the lockers with a force I didn't even know I could muster. In the instant she reaches back to rub her head that's taken the blow of metal, I feel awful, not realizing how gentle she must have actually been.  
"You sure are," she says with more hiss, "just fucking fine without me."  
She closes her locker and turns her back to me, calling the argument over, but it's not. It's so far from over. From behind her, I launch myself across the aisle and wrap my arms around her stomach like a line-backer. I can hear her breath escape her lungs as her head hits the floor, and she instinctively kicks her legs, frantic to remove me. I'm not really sure that exact moment she decides to fight back, after what seemed like minutes of flailing and scratching, her hands reach up to shove mine away. Her face contorts, the same expression floods her features, the furious one I'd come to know all too well. And with one exaggerated jerk, she's grabbed a handful of my hair, and pulled.  
I snarl, a sound I didn't know possible, and she's distracted me long enough to flip out positions. We're on our sides, limbs entangled, fighting and struggling to be on top. Her hands grip my wrists suddenly, and with all her might she lays her feet against my thighs to push distance between us. My first instinct is to get my wrists free, so I can just release all the anger that's been caged in for a while. I rip my hands away, and I feel my elbow smack her face.  
Santana whimpers, a sound I've never heard from such a dominant person. There's blood now, and we're both not giving up. She's growing weary, out of breath and seeing stars. I finally see the chance, and flip our bodies again, straddling her torso, and I feel like a group of hollering football players should be surrounding us. She tries to lash out with her arms, but I have them securely behind her head.  
For a moment, we lay there, panting, and I notice her bleeding, cracked lips. I can't remember the last time we were in this position. She shuts her eyes, positively apprehensive of a blow that will for sure break her nose. But it never comes.  
Instead she gets my lips on hers; pressing so hard and frantic she winces. I can taste the blood, from an injury I caused, and I feel tears-for what seems like the millionth time this week-burn behind my eyelids. The fight's still between us, but it's entirely different now. Her fingers reach up to grasp my jaw in place, trying to pull me closer so the distance of three weeks is finally gone.  
Santana opens her eyes and sinks closer to the ground, pulling back for air. I'm still sitting on her hips, panting.  
"You're bleeding," I say eventually, the tears still threatening to fall. She reaches up to touch a finger to her mouth and winces again, but my hands are still cradling her head.  
"I'm sorry," she whispers, only loud enough for both of us to hear.  
"I'm so sorry." The tears, they finally come. My body racks with sobs and she nudges us both to a sitting position.  
"It's just a scratch Britt," she says, and runs her fingers through my hair.  
My body jolts at her touch, and my palms brace against her knees. "Not that, I mean, that too. Everything else though. I've been so mad at you."  
I'm still sobbing, and Santana looks stunned. "I'm sorry I screwed up. You're allowed to be mad at me; all of this shit is my fault." She reaches to wipe some of the tears from my cheeks, "You're my best friend."  
The words sting and I look away, another wave of tears falling.  
"You're more than that," she corrects. "So much more than that. Look at me," she says, and tilts my head toward her. Santana's eyes are so genuine when our gazes meet, and lock. It almost kills me. "Marry me."  
The words come up from her core, traveling through her stomach, past her lungs and heart, not stopping to think in her throat.  
"What?" I breathe, rolling back on my heels and toppling back between her legs. I'm dumbfounded, my face slack with surprise.  
"Marry me," she repeats, and takes my hands in hers.  
I look down at her hand in mine, it's not wavering and she looks at me straight in the eye.  
"I can't," I say, and it's a feeble attempt.  
"That doesn't sound like a 'no'," she comments, squeezing my hand like before.  
"Y-You left me," I say, and I realize her face is inches from mine again, "I can't."  
Her face falls from mine, but she suppresses a smile, "Then tell me when." Santana leans forward and presses her forehead to mine, knowing there is no other answer.  
"In a year, when we graduate. Ask me then."  
She smiles again, the blood on her lips making it a twisted grin. "I will. I promise."


	2. Excuses

**A/N:**

**(1) So here's the start. It's a bit short, or whatever, but I just wanted to set the stage and everything. Please leave any feedback! I'd love to hear from the readers. How am I supposed to know what you want if you don't let me know?! ;)**

* * *

_5 weeks earlier_

Rachel is impulsively belting it out. Like, the last scene of _The Sound of Music_ belting it out. And I'm pretty sure it's a seven minute song too, because Santana's begun to pick at the edges of her manicured fingertips. She may be an opinionated and defiant person, but she's always been known to be respectful towards anyone who had the courage to stand up and sing in front of Glee club, even if it is Rachel _Berry_ of all people.

Everyone else seems to have lost interest too as she boldly hits the last string of notes, the guitar fading out with her voice. Tina has her head rested on Mike's shoulder and is smiling contently up at his defined jaw bone while Kurt is gawking at Blaine like he is the center of the universe.

I sigh, nudging Santana's knee with mine, secretly wishing I could outwardly adore her like that.

Santana looks up to meet my gaze, and smiles shyly at me before rolling her eyes and whispering an agitated 'finally' as everyone around us claps.

Rachel is smiling like she's won the freaking lottery, not sung a song for twelve of her peers.

"How con-fucking-trary," Santana mumbles as Mr. Shuester claps his hands together and proceeds to talk over Kurt, Blaine, and Mercedes who are still ranting over Rachel's performance.

"That was really great Rachel," he begins, "but we have nationals to focus on now. Winning regionals is one thing, but this is a step up from all of that. I have complete faith in you guys. I expect everyone to show up tomorrow ready to go!" He claps his hands again, but everyone is too busy collecting their things and hurriedly shuffling towards the door to give him a second thought.

"Hey BritBrit," Santana says linking her pinkie in mine by second nature. She tugs me down off the risers, clutching her books to her chest with her free hand while I slip my backpack over my shoulder. "I thought maybe we could-"

But she's interrupted by a deep voice behind us. We both turn to meet Puck striding towards us from behind the piano.

"Santana," she says again gruffly, smiling. He shoves his hands in his pockets and stares at the ground; something he obviously thinks is attractive. It really isn't.

"You coming over tonight?" he asks the ground.

Santana drops my pinkie, straightening herself before crossing her arms over her chest. "I planned on it Noah," she answers, flipping her ponytail and glancing at me. There's something in her eyes, the slight spark that was their before is gone, and I know that's not exactly what she was planning on doing tonight at all.

"Great," he says, piping up and bringing himself to look up at us both, eyeing Santana like she's the prey and he's the lion ready to eat a four course meal. I think I might be sick to my stomach. "Be there at nine," he finishes, and stalks off behind us.

Santana breathes out a huge sigh, and reaches to lock our pinkies again, but I instantly yank my hand away. "Is 'no' in your vocabulary?" I snap, and instantly regret it.

Santana's face contorts in a split second going from anger to sympathy and then to anger again, her eyes darker than usual. "What was I supposed to do Brit?" she chokes.

"Nothing," I say, and reach behind me to hoist the other strap of my backpack over my shoulder. "You were supposed to say nothing because our 'almost' plans mean nothing to you," I say in a rush, taking a few steps backwards to increase the distance between us. "Jesus, I don't even know Santana."

My feet swivel beneath me and I march towards the door, not really bothering to give a second thought about Santana. If I hadn't been so wrapped up in the thought of reaching the doorway and getting the _hell_ out of the choir room within seconds, I wouldn't have jumped when a warm hand wrapped around my wrist.

"Brit baby," Santana's soft voice coos, and I melt, because I can't help myself.

She pulls me out of the doorway and into a darker part of the room next to the closet. Her arms wrap around my waist, the only available space because of my backpack. She presses her lips to my collarbone, leaving them there just long enough to drive me insane before pulling away and resting her chin on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry," I quickly mutter, not sure how much longer I'll be able to take the feeling of her hands on my hips or how the tip of her ponytail tickles the edge of my nose during out embrace because of my height advancement. "I shouldn't have over reacted."

"I should be the one apologizing," she breathes into my skin, and my knees nearly give out beneath me. "What's wrong?" she asks innocently, as if she has no idea what caused my outburst.

_Oh nothing._

_Just that I love you so much it hurts and I don't want you sleeping with Puck._

_I need to inhale every part of your perfect body._

_I think about what it's like to have you on a daily basis._

_You're the most beautiful person I've ever seen._

"Nothing," I lie, swallowing loudly.

"Promise?" she asks, offering her pinkie to me.

I smile bashfully, feeling like a fool for being so childish. "Promise," I respond, gently plucking her finger.

I look at the girl I love, or think I love, look at her closely and I see the shame she feels. I understand that she feels bad, but at the same time I can't bring myself to understand her at all. Everything inside me, every seething emotion is conflicting with each other, and I wish for a moment that maybe I can numb myself from it all. But the biggest, the _foremost_ thing I feel is a huge ball of frustrating _anger_ that I know I just a ticking time bomb.

"See you later," she whispers, and kisses my cheek.

If only she knew how many promises I couldn't keep.

* * *

Since I was twelve years old, the window in the right corner of my room has stayed unlocked, for one reason only. The giant oak tree standing outside had a few branches just tall enough for Santana to climb up and slip inside almost effortlessly. She comes most nights, not having any problems avoiding her parents who are both usually at work.

Our secret was safe for the longest time until one unfortunate morning when Santana had fallen asleep wrapped around me. My little sister was at the point in her life where she had just barely mastered the art of talking, so when she flung the door open and found us lying together, we both knew there was no point of bargaining. Kenzie promptly marched downstairs and assured my mother that, "'Tana as sleeping with Brittany."

My mother's curious face peered in my room moments later, not exactly sure of what to expect. She found us both cowering under the cover, positive we wouldn't be able to see each other ever again. But my mother just smiled and offered us both breakfast.

Santana hasn't spent the whole night since.

Later my mother would come to tell me that after my father left us, she was welcoming of anything that would help me sleep at night, even if it was another person.

She'd never know the horrible feeling of waking up alone.

So tonight, it was no surprise when I awoke to a familiar figure sliding through my window and stealthily creeping across my bedroom until it reached the edge of my bed.

"Hey Brit," a velvety voice whispers, sliding under the covers to face me.

"Hey San," I breathe as she kisses my forehead. "How was getting naked with Puck?"

Santana snorts a laugh, lying down next to me. "Awful. He was disgusting. I left early to come be with you."

"How thoughtful," I mock, and flip my body so that my back is facing her, memories of earlier flashing through my mind.

"Oh c'mon Brit, don't be like that," Santana answers, rubbing her hand up and down my bare arm, uncovered by my skimpy pajamas. "You know it doesn't mean anything with him."

"Then why do you go?"

Santana sighs, moving to brush a strand of blonde hair from my eyes. "I don't really know."

"Why do you come here?"

She keeps running her hands through my hair. "It helps you fall asleep."

"And when can I have you all to myself?"

Santana sighs again, this time way more dramatic. "Brit, we've talked about this," she says, leaning over to kiss the backside of my neck.

I shiver at the gesture, scooting away immediately. "No," I say firmly, feeling my whole body go tense. "You can't kiss any part of my body until you let me be yours. All yours, all the time. No Puck."

Instead of a snicker, or rude remark that I was expecting, I feel her frown. "I can't," is her response.

We lay there for a moment, just listening to each other breathe and the way our heartbeats somehow fall in sync for seconds at a time. It feels like even they are trying hard to get us to come together, ending in a failed attempt.

"I'm sorry about earlier," Santana says, ending the silence.

"You already apologized," I mumble into my pillow, fighting the urge to turn and hold Santana right here. Forever, without anything or anyone in the way.

"I know. But I also know that a simple apology isn't any good for you Brit."

I nod, acknowledging the fact that she could see right through me. "Well San, when you're ready to be mine, just let me know," I add, slithering my way back towards he until I feel the warmth she always seems to radiate.

Santana wraps her arms around my stomach, holding my waist in place while she shifts until she's straddling my thighs. The voice in the back of my head is going crazy, telling me 'no' and 'yes' all at the same time. She does this every time, maybe it's some sort of dramatic gesture for power, or just her way of apologizing for the third time today.

She leans down, grasping a handful of my shirt before sealing our lips, hers expertly working magic over mine. She tastes sweet, like she swallowed a mouthful of sugar beforehand.

I tell myself this isn't right, leading her in the wrong direction while she does the same to me, moments ago telling her she can't have any part of me, and then letting her kiss me.

I pull away slowly, hearing a whine from the back of her throat. Santana slides off of me, positioning herself so that our legs are tangled and her arms are securely around me again.

"I guess I deserved that."

"I love you," I whisper, allowing her to continue to trail kisses down my neck.

"Goodnight Brit," she says, entwining her fingers in mine, slowly rubbing my hand with her thumb. The feeling is enough to make me come undone.

I know she won't stay the night.

Why does she never say 'I love you' back?


End file.
